Freebird
by One Confused Angel
Summary: :::On Brief Hiatus::: Companion piece to "Riding Shotgun". Follows Dean and Sam from just before Dean's death to Nick purchasing the Impala. Answers those pesky questions from my inbox. How did Dean die? Where's Sam? What happened to the arsenal in the trunk? Warnings for Depression and Suicidal thoughts/actions.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Notes_

_1. Don't own 'em._

_2. I don't have a beta so all mistakes are mine. (But if you feel like telling me when & if you find mistakes you'll have my unwavering and undying gratitude.) :-)_

_3. WARNING: Depression and thoughts of suicide_

* * *

Dean shuffles across the bunker, his bare feet dragging on the cold floor. He rubs one hand over his stubbled jaw, thinking he should probably shave at some point, and then deciding it's too damn much effort, he lowers his hand. He stops abruptly and swishes the remaining swallow of coffee around in his cup, mixing the few loose grounds in with the too thick liquid, then gulps it down before continuing on towards the kitchen.

He's tired. So damn tired he can't think strait. Of course that's been his problem for months now. He's exhausted and pulled to his limits. It's all starting to get to be too much for him, and he realizes his exhaustion is more avoidance than anything. He _knows_ this, but can't do anything about it. As he steps into the kitchen, his desire for that eleventh cup of coffee fades away as he notices the coffee pot is empty and cold. Sam has cleaned the kitchen, and the pot along with it. Deciding it would take more energy and motivation than he has to make another pot, Dean sets the cup on the counter. He stares at the cup for moment, and then the coffee pot. He's overcome with anger, because Sam is always pulling this shit on him. He knows Dean wants coffee. This isn't new, he's been downing coffee lately like it was water and he's thirsting to death. So what the Hell was Sam thinking dumping out a half full pot of coffee. _He never fucking thinks. He never thinks about what I need, or want, or how shit affects me. FUCK!_

Dean grabs the coffee cup and throws it across the kitchen, shattering it on the wall. This time he screams his curse. "FUUUUUCK!" He reaches for the offending appliance and wrenching it from the wall hurls it to the floor. His anger keeps building and he doesn't know why, but it's there and it needs to get out.

Dean clutches to the edge of the counter, trying to control this frenzy. He knows it's irrational. He knows it's just a damn cup of coffee. But it's heavy. That's the only word he can find to describe it. _Heavy._ Deep down on a soul crushing level, it is heavy – and that pisses him off even more because now he's just being a pussy over some hurt feelings – and, damn, if that just doesn't make it hurt, too. And nobody cares. He's alone and in it on his own. He'd done nothing but fight. Fight for his family, fight for his friends, fight for humanity. Not even a God damned _Thank You. _ Why? Because. No. Body. Cares. Period. And why should they? Honestly. Cas was right. He is a broken shell of a man.

Dean fists at his hair, tugging it by the roots and seethes through clenched teeth and rigid muscles. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid weak douchbag._ He's crying now, and the weight of it all is becoming too much. "I just want a little peace." He hisses. "I just want somebody to give a damn. GUHHH!" The anger Dean has been fighting to keep in check bubbles to the surface and he slams his fists onto the counter and swipes them over the surface, sending Sam's stupid glass fruit bowel stuffed full of bananas and apples flying. It collides with a bottom cabinet and shatters, fruit and glass launching across the floor.

He begins grabbing cabinets, jerking them open and slamming them shut, over and over, until a few are pulled of the hinges. He yanks one such cabinet door down and throws it across the kitchen like a Frisbee. Completely unsatisfied with how it thumps into the wall and clatters to the floor, he picks it up and begins pummeling the wall until it breaks and shards, and a piece imbeds in his wrist. Dean swears again at the sharp pain, tossing the remains of the cabinet on the floor before examining his wrist.

And then it stops. As quickly as his temper had risen, it ebbs.

He's surprisingly fascinated by the large splinter, maybe three inches long and a quarter inch in circumference, it reminds him of a small pen knife. It burns, and is bleeding, and he watches it curiously, like he's trying to figure out why he likes it there. The burning, and bleeding; the sharp pinches on the nerves that sends radiating pain through his hand. Dean flexes his fist encouraging the pain to intensify and satisfy his need and curiosity. Blood continues to seep from the wound. Not a lot, but enough to draw Dean's attention. He feels the pain and sees the blood, but it's so foreign to him, like the memory of sensations instead of the present experience. He continues to watch and flex, enthralled by it all, and not willing to lose the experience yet. An experience, he is willing to admit to himself, that doesn't leave him feeling weighed down and burdened. With every drop of his blood and every pulse of pain the weight seems to lighten. For just a moment it all just _stops,_ and Dean realizes, that's what he wants. He wants it to _stop._ All of it. _Everything._

* * *

Sam silently watches from the doorway, afraid to approach because these fits have become so unpredictable that he fears so much as clearing his throat might send Dean into another rage. Each time he rages until he hurts himself, and then a calm comes over him for a while. A day or maybe two, then Dean slips into this depression again. He begins sleeping for sixteen hours a day, and yells for no reason, and stops showering and stops shaving, and takes risks on hunts deliberately so he can be injured and feel that calm again.

Sam knows all of this, but can't do anything about it. He's tried talking to Dean, but then Dean rages at him, and accuses him of "hounding" and "nagging", and says, "It wouldn't be a problem if people would just leave me the fuck alone." This strikes Sam as bizarre because Dean _is always_ alone. No one wants to be near him anymore, even Sam keeps his distance. Dean needs professional help, but it's not like there's a rolodex of therapists specializing in "Hunter Trauma" that Sam has to pull from. He's stuck, and can do nothing but watch and try to redirect where he can. So when Dean's breathing finally steadies, and the storm passes, Sam approaches and directs Dean out of the kitchen and into the bathroom for first aide.

* * *

As Sam leads him towards the bathroom Dean is viscerally aware of his brother. Of all Sam's done for him and all Dean's tried to do, but has failed at. Even now when he has torn apart their kitchen, Sam is still taking care of him. And if that isn't a kick in the pants – because it's just another example of how Dean has let Sam down. Just another pound of disappointment and regret added to the all ready crippling weight. Sam thinks Dean can't see it, but he can. It's always there. Sam's ashamed of him. But to his credit, he stays. Sam puts up with it, and cleans Dean up and cares for him.

Dean makes a decision as he sits silently on the toilet, with Sam pulling the splinter out of his wrist. _It has to stop. It just has to._ _For Sam's sake as well as my own_. He can't handle it anymore. Knowing what a complete and useless failure he is and seeing it in Sam's eyes . . . that right there is the straw that broke Dean Winchesters back. Sohe decides to make it stop permanently.

With the decision made, Dean leans back against the toilet, and feels the stress and anxiety trickle from his body. That heavy weight leaves him because this is the right, best and _only_ choice. Dean exhales heavily and looks down at Sam. "Thanks, Sam. You know… for everything." Sam looks up at him from where he is now tenderly pulling shards of glass from the bottom of Dean's foot. He hadn't realized he'd stepped on the glass. Another wave of guilt passes over him, but he holds onto his calm, because now there is a way out. "I think I'm going to be ok now, Sammy. I think I've figured this out now, and I'm going to fix it."

Sam hopes so, and says as much. "This has gotten out of hand, Dean. If you think you've found a way to cope, and make this better, to fix this and make it right again, then I'm on board."

Dean basks in Sam's approval, the only thing he needed to prove unequivocally that this is the right solution. He doesn't necessarily _want _to die. That's not it at all. He wants to live, but he wants it to stop more. So with Sam's blessing cementing his resolve, Dean leans back and imagines an end.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Authors Note: **_

_**1)I've changed the rating to T. I've worked around the content so it's not graphic enough for an M rating. **_

_**2)I will be changing the name of this fic at the next upload, to "Freebird". After this chapter it just seemed like a better title. So if you're watching for it, that's it.**_

_**3)No Beta, all mistakes are mine. :-)**_

* * *

Sam is working in the archives. He's reading everything the Men of Letters have and adding anything new they didn't have before. He's learning more than he's adding. Its times like this he wishes they still had Bobby's library. As much information is at his fingertips in the bunker, there was so much lost when Bobby's place was torched.

Sam lets out a breath and begins scrubbing his face with his hands, trying to work some feeling back into his cheeks. His eyes aren't focusing, and that's when he realizes he's been sitting, staring at books for a good four hours without a break. He glances around, and takes in the bunker. He's a little dazed from being lost in books so long he wonders what he may have missed and where Deans wondered off to. It's eerily quiet, and he strains to hear anything that might indicate he's not alone. Not that he has a problem with being a lone, it's just a little odd stuffing your head in a book, then looking up and realizing Dean's been abducted by fairies again. Sam groans and rubs his eyes again. _Fairies!_ The Men of Letters have so much crap on fairies it's a little creepy, so much so that he's pretty sure he's going to be dreaming about a homicidal Tinker Bell tonight.

While his thumbs are still pressed into his sockets, Sam hears Dean singing in his bedroom. "Freebird" drifts through the halls. He listens to Dean sing about the high cost of freedom, at least this is what Sam's getting from the song that he'd never actually stopped to listen to before. The parallel to their own lives is haunting. The ability to go where you want, do what you want, never being chained down and the inability to hold onto the ones you love because of it. Things can never be how they should be, and nothing can ever change, so you don't have a choice. You love them too much to make them watch you leave over and over and over, so you leave for good. The words aren't "I'm free as a bird" because he's declaring it as an affirmation, but because he's trying to convince himself and justify his abandonment. A final good-bye, because he's as captive in his freedom as he would be in a cage. Sam swallows down the bile that rises in his throat.

Dean's singing is just a little more depressing than Sam wants to deal with right now, and would probably lead somewhere he really doesn't want to go, or rather where he doesn't want to go. He's not stupid; he knows something's off – _very_ off. But his head is fighting with his heart. It's been a week and Dean hasn't had a rage since that day in the kitchen. He isn't top notch yet, but he's better. He still sleeps a lot, but not nearly as much as before, and he showers every day, so that's something. Every now and then Sam thinks he sees something cross over Dean's eyes, like he's about to rage out, but then it vanishes, Dean takes a deep breath, or just huffs and walks away.

Dean's been researching hunts. As much as Sam wants Dean to get back in the saddle, he's concerned. A week ago Dean was allowing monsters to beat on him, and regardless of Dean's new found _calm_, Sam is not convinced it will maintain through a hunt. He can't help but feel that this is some kind of elaborate ruse, that Dean has found a way to fake this new Zen attitude. Dean is not _Zen_. Never has been. So when Sam does something stupid, like spill coffee on the seat of the Impala, and Dean just heaves a frustrated sigh, pinches the bridge of his nose, before saying "No worries, Sam. It can be cleaned up." Sam thinks something's up. That is just too damn composed for Dean. Even on his best day, a coffee spill on the Impala would at least warrant a "What the Hell!" It's not normal. It feels a bit too much like the calm before the storm, and Sam doesn't want lightening to strike while they're knee deep in a vampire's nest.

Sam swallows all these concerns down and _chooses_, quite willfully, to be optimistic. Yes, it's a tenuous peace, but one that Sam chooses to believe will continue and grow stronger.

When his phone rings, Sam is grateful for the distraction. He chuckles as he answers it. Of all the hunters they had met over the years, Byron was probably the most unique, well at least in the top two, Garth still had Byron beat, but it was a close second. They had met him a little over a year ago while on a simple salt and burn of all things. To look at him you never would have guessed the guy was a hunter. He had strode right up to Sam and Dean, shook their hands, and introduced himself, saying, "So…wanna team up, this bitch is a real pain the ass." Dean had looked him up and down with a raised eyebrow, because if the Gargamel t-shirt and cargo pants weren't weird enough, the labret piercing and Birkenstocks were downright frightening. (Thank God, he did actually have a decent pair of hunting boots in his car.) Byron raised his eyebrow right back, and said, "Sam and Dean Winchester, correct?" Both Sam and Dean had answered with shifty looks and a few "ummm . . . yeahs." (Because there was nothing, _absolutely_ _nothing,_ about this guy that said "hunter". He was too … clean and … feminine.) Byron replied to all this without missing a beat, "Wow. Dumber than a box of hair . . . so ghost? Gank? Yes?" Surprisingly, he turned out to be one hell of a hunter. Even more surprising is how much Sam and Dean actually like Byron. He is one of their favorite hunters to team up with.

"What's up Byron?"

"Saaaaam. Just the hunter I was looking for. Do you think you and Dean are up to a good old fashioned Werewolf hunt?"

"Afraid of dogs, now?"

"Ha. Not exactly. I'm stuck in Cali. I thought I would be done by now, but it looks like I might be another day or two. There's a werewolf roaming the Nebraska National Forest. I almost had 'em last month, but he got away. Full moon's in two days and you're my favorite dog catcher."

"You mean we're the closest."

"Splitting hairs. Hey, listen…if Dean's not up to it, I can call someone else. I know he's been…well, you know."

"No. He's doing better. I actually think he's coming out of it. We haven't had a problem in while." Sam knows it's a lie, but he continues anyway. It's all part of his _optimistic outlook._ "He's been looking for a hunt, so this is perfect. Nothing too challenging, you know. It'll be a good gage of where he's at. "

"Yeah. Good. I'll e-mail you the details then."

Sam hangs up, and hopes this isn't a mistake. That voice in his head nags at him again, but he buries it down. _It's just a werewolf. Even Dean's not stupid enough to get up close and personal on purpose. _He just hopes he's right.

* * *

Dean's sitting in his room going through is belongings. Everything needs a home. There's very little he has that doesn't mean something to him, so it's important that everything go somewhere. He knows the pictures go to Sam, that's obvious. Right now he's looking through his records. He cards his fingers over the edge of the cardboard cases, while thinking how much he would love to leave these to Ben. He wanted to leave him the Impala as well, but none of it would matter to Ben anymore.

Dean rubs a hand over his chest, trying to push down the emotion welling up. He takes a ragged breath and reminds himself that it will be over soon. He's been looking for hunts, trying to find the right one. He doesn't want Sam walking in on him with slit wrists, or blown out brains, and Dean isn't sure he would be able to do it that way, anyway. He's too much of a coward for that. It's better to go out like a hunter. If he goes out like a hunter, he can still have a Hunter's Funeral, and still retain a little self respect. It's hard to hide a self inflicted gunshot wound, but hunters die all the time from monster attacks. The challenge he's facing is finding a hunt that will allow him to be inconspicuous in his intentions and still keep Sam safe. Vampires are likely to change you, salt and burns are just sketchy, a windego will store him up, and probably eat Sam, too. There is what looks like a demon issue over in Missouri, but those bastards are even sketchier than ghosts. The perfect solution will present itself, Dean is certain, but until it does, Dean still has some work to finish.

He's going to leave his music to Byron, he's thinks. Even though he's more the Nirvana, Phish, Grateful Dead sort, (he has those stupid bears stenciled on his car window, for crying out loud) Dean is pretty sure he will appreciate the records, if for no other reason than they are coming from Dean and have historical significance.

He racks his brain thinking about what to do with the Impala. Sam doesn't want her, that much he knows. Even if Sam _did_ want her, he would douche her up, and he wouldn't take proper care of her. He proved that much in how careless he was with her. She still has a lingering coffee smell from where it's soaked down through the stitching. He was and still is, seriously pissed off about that, but grateful as well. It has convinced Dean once and for all that Sam is not the right person to care for Baby after he's gone. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves.

_Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. _ It's his new mantra. A repetitious reminder that soon all the pain and heaviness and anger will be gone. He repeats it in his mind again, and focuses on his task at hand. He starts humming, and then singing. The song has new meaning to him now. He thinks of Lisa and Ben and how he walked away from them. Ben's words are still ringing in his ears. "You're walking out on your family." He thinks of Sam, and how he's doing the same thing to him now. But it still stands, what he said to Ben, and it means more now than ever. "Just because you love someone, doesn't mean you should stick around and screw up their life." He's stopped singing now, and that familiar weight has begun to take root in Dean's stomach again. _Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. _

Dean purposely moves his mind off of his loved ones, and focuses on the Impala. He has to find a home for her soon, he can't wait much longer. It's all ready been a week, and his resolve is starting to waiver. He has to find a hunt and end it soon, because holding on to this calm is getting harder and harder. The longer he waits the more distant the solution seems. _Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. _

Dean's attention is drawn to the door when Sam raps his knuckles on the open frame. "What's up Sammy?" Dean asks, trying to sound a little more upbeat than he feels.

"Byron called. He says there's a werewolf about 5 hours from here, if you're up for it?"

Dean smiles, and this time he doesn't need to add any artificial enthusiasm. _Finally!_ It's perfect. "Sounds awesome, Sammy. When are we leavin'?"

"Day after tomorrow."

Dean can feel his face fall. _Shit! Shit! Shit!_ He still has so much to finish up before they leave. He plasters his smile back on. "Sounds good. Nothing like a good old fashioned werewolf hunt." Dean winks at Sam, who chuckles at his brother and turns and walks away.

Dean stands up and begins pacing, running his fingers through his hair. _Stupid! Stupid! No. No. Calm down. _It doesn't really matter, Dean decides. There's no one left that cares. Everyone that Dean has ever cared about or loved or who has ever cared about or loved him is dead, except for Sam. There's no one to pass a legacy onto. None of it will ever have meaning to anyone but him. None of it really matters to Dean all of a sudden. Sam will want the pictures, sure, but after that? Who's going to care after Sam? No one. So what's the point?

Dean rubs his hand over his mouth and chin. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself again,_ Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over._ He refocuses his thoughts. Baby still matters. He can't stomach the idea of her ending up in a junk yard somewhere, rusting away. Or worse than that, Sam hunting with her. Eventually, she'll get wrecked again, and then who's going to fix her up. Not Sam, that's for damn sure. She'll end up in a junk yard rusting away, or torn apart for pieces. If she's lucky she'll end up in a show room, being kept off the road. Dean shudders. He _CAN NOT_ let that happen.

Dean paces and paces and thinks and paces some more. Sam may not care about the Impala, but he cares about Dean. He's putting something together in head; it's taking a bit longer than it should, but its coming. Dean keeps pacing. Sam'll make sure his final requests are honored no matter what. It's not like Dean's going to make any outrageous requests. And that's when he gets it. It's not the perfect solution. Dean would much rather vet everyone himself, but he can leave Sam a list of requirements. No, it's not perfect, but given the time limit, it'll work.

Dean sucks in a breath and lets it out again. Crisis averted. _Almost there. Almost done. Almost over. Just a little further. It's almost over. _ Dean rubs his hands together and mentally puts together a short list of things he needs to get done before the day after tomorrow.

* * *

_**As always, comments are welcome.**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Authors note: 1) Don't own 'em.**_

_**2) No beta, so all mistakes are mine.**_

_**3)Trigger warnings for depression and suicide.**_

* * *

Dean is surprised at how relieved he is now that all this is done. At first he had been concerned about the amount of time he had to complete his tasks, but now he's found that the weight that was crushing him only a week ago, is almost gone with the approach of his impending departure. He can't quite bring himself to say it. It's not that he doesn't understand what he's doing, or that he is reluctant to do it, just that the term no longer holds the meaning it used to. He's died and come back, Sam died and come back. Cass died – how many times – and came back. _Dead_ doesn't mean that much to him, so he doesn't say it. Not saying it doesn't really matter. The end result is the same, and that makes him surprisingly - _blissful._

Over the last couple of days Dean has prepared his small world for Sam. He wants to make it as smooth for him as possible. There is the understanding that it will be a shock for Sam, and of course he will mourn the loss of his brother, so naturally he doesn't need the added pressure of having to rummage through Deans life and sort it out and clean it up. The first thing he did was get rid of anything that Sam didn't need to see. A black garbage bag full of skin mags, ridiculous keepsakes that would do more to confuse Sam than anything else, and other odds and ends that everyone accumulates and that mean absolutely nothing, has found its way to the dump.

After completing that task, he took to the Impala. He cleaned her from top to bottom, waxed her, shined her tires, and cleaned her trunk. Sam had questioned Dean as he hauled weapons into the bunker and hauled the shot-vac outside. "It's a new day Sammy!" Dean chirped in response. "Why haul all that crap anyway. Besides we know it's a werewolf. We'll take what we need." It was an excuse to appease Sam, of course. The truth was, Dean didn't want Sam to have to worry about cleaning her out when it came time to find her a new home. That didn't seem right to him, making Sam responsible for that as well. So Dean vacuumed her out, Armor all'd every bit of her interior. He made her shine, and she was a thing of beauty.

Afterword, Dean sat behind the wheel and said good-bye. He explained it all to her. He told her how much he loved her, and why he was doing this, and how Sam was going to take care of her. He rested his head on her steering wheel and breathed in her scent. If he missed anything when he was gone, it was going to be her. He would miss the companionship that Sam brought into his life, and the support, but Baby had never faltered or failed him. She was undeniably and inarguably the one constant in his life. She never disappointed him. Not once. He placed a kiss on her steering wheel, wiped away his tears, and then went back inside the bunker.

He spends the majority of that last night writing a letter to Sam and to who ever ended up with Baby. It's important to him that Sam understand. He's included with his letter instructions for Baby, requirements of the next owner and a list of every person who had died because of him and every life he's ruined. Sam's name is on that list. He explains how this all weighs on him and how if he wants to save Sam, he has to leave him. He tells Sam how much pain he's in and how this is the only way to get relief. He begs him not to be angry with him, to understand and be happy that this is finally over for him. He reminds Sam of all the times he was suppose to have died. His father taking his place and after being electrocuted, going to Hell, (even though he is grateful not to be stuck there anymore) these are still heavy burdens he carries, even all these years later. He has managed to swindle Death so many times; it's no wonder that every moment of his life since then has been filled with nothing but loss and misery.

While Dean writes, he is reminded of the time he took Deaths job, and how he saved the little girl. Tessa had explained how death and misery would follow her for the rest of her life because she had not died when she was supposed to. In the midst of the Apocalypse, he hadn't made the connection, but now he did; and so very, very clearly. It really was his fault. All of it. Had he just stayed dead all those times he was meant to, then all that pain and suffering would not have befallen those he loved. Dean adds that to the letter.

He completes it by telling Sam how much he loves him, and how he doesn't presume to know what Sam wants from his life any longer, but he hopes he goes after it and gets it. Then he seals the letter in a plain white envelope and sets it neatly on his pillow. The other letter, he places in his pocket.

Dean stands in the door of his bedroom and takes one final look around. Everything is pristine and in its place. The letter has Sam's name written in heavy black Sharpie, so when he finally comes into this room he will not miss it. Satisfied with how he is leaving this, he turns his light off, and leaves the door open.

* * *

Sam is not beyond admitting that he is a little weirded out. If Dean had been uncharacteristically Zen a few days ago, now he is Pod People Happy. He walks around the bunker singing and whistling. Granted it's the same four songs over and over again (Freebird, Dust in the Wind, Stairway to Heaven, and Smoke on the Water), and Sam has caught himself humming those same songs over, and over … and over again, but Dean has this big goofy grin on his face, and when Sam questions him about his giddiness, he smiles like only he can and says, "A werewolf Sammy. A werewolf." Like it was the greatest thing on the face of the earth, and then skips (because yes, Dean has a "skip" in his step) off to clean something else. The Impala has never looked so good. Still, its weird, but Sam can't find fault with happiness, and he honestly believes it's about time Dean had a little bit in his life. Whatever it is that Dean has found to "fix" his problem, it's working.

When the morning they are to leave for Nebraska arrives, Sam wakes up to find Dean in the kitchen sipping a cup of coffee. Sam's groggy and stumbling. With a 1000 watt smile Dean hands him a cup of coffee and chirps (_chirps!)_, "Morning Sammy. What's been keepin' ya sleeping beauty? That werewolf's not gonna gank itself." Sam groans at Dean, and mumbles something incoherent, that even he doesn't understand, then he takes his damn coffee back to his room. Dean has no right to be so damn chipper.

It only takes an hour for Sam to be "up and at 'em" and "rearin' to go". As they approach the Impala, Dean tosses Sam the keys, and says, "You drive Sammy." Sam is now convinced that Dean is indeed, a Pod Person.

They are about two hours outside of Lebanon when Sam decides to talk to Dean about his strange behavior. They are going to be stuck in the car for another three hours, so this is the perfect time to broach the subject.

"Are you doing ok, Dean?"

"I'm great, Sammy. Never better." And he means it.

"Yeah. You seem happy, but you're just, you've been acting weird. I mean, come on. First there's the raging out, then you're all Yoda Zen, now you're freaking Pollyanna*."

"Dude. Pollyanna?"

Sam shrugs. "I know you said you'd figured it out, and were fixing it. And I support you 100 percent. But I want to know what's happening. What's changed? I want to make sure you're really ok and not just going along to get along. You know?"

Dean sighs and rests back against the head rest. Sam swallows hard. He hopes this conversation doesn't set Dean off into a rage. If it does, he's likely to open the car door and jump out. Sam thinks he's exaggerating in thinking that, but isn't really sure. As optimistic as he is still trying to be, the consequences of those rages continue to be fresh in his mind.

Instead of raging, or going Zen, or even smiling and blowing him off, Sam gets a glimpse of the old Dean. He looks right at Sam, with an intensity that is unnerving. He gestures towards the window. "What do you see out there?" Sam raises his eyebrow at Dean. "Seriously. What do you see?"

"Okay," Sam scoffs, "I see Kansas. Grass. Trees. Prairie."

"Yeah. There's that. It's springtime Sammy. I see _hope_. New life growing up. New green leaves growing on trees after a cold winter. Colorful flowers blooming from a ground that was frozen just two months ago. It's a promise of better things. It says, even after the frozen waste of a deadly winter, the world can be washed clean and there is hope."

"Huh." _Definitely a Pod Person …or a Shape Shifter._

"And it's all fucking bullshit."

"What?" _Okay. There's the Dean I know and tolerate._

"It's a lie. A smack in the face to everyone I've ever loved, and everything I've ever fought against. The real world isn't like that Sam. It isn't fresh, it isn't clean, it isn't hopeful. It's rainbows and lollipops painted on a damn body cast, because underneath it's still as broken as it ever was. There's no fixing the world, Sammy. I can't fix it. I can't change it. I can't make it better. I can't bring anyone back and I can't make their deaths mean anything. I can't stop the pain. It's all still there. No matter how many monsters we kill, or how many times we save the world, there's still going to be more to do and stop. And God help me Sam, more people to lose. It's a never ending struggle, and it will _never_ be washed clean. So why bother bothering."

"Dean…"

"I'm not done. You wanna know why I'm so happy? It's because I get it. I can't stop it, so why try. Suffering is part of life. It starts when we're born and stops when we bite the dust. So I have simply embraced that. This ends when I do, and until then, I'm just going to ignore it until it literally goes away. That's working for me."

"Dean…"

"Don't harsh my mellow, Sam. It's working for me. So let it be, man. Okay? Let me be happy the way I _want_ to be, with what's left of my life."

Sam can't speak, for any other reason than he doesn't know what to say. He's not sure he agrees with Dean, but he doesn't disagree either. Sam nods at him, and then Dean turns back towards the window and starts humming "Smoke on the Water". They drive the rest of the way in silence.

* * *

As they park, Dean grumbles about werewolves in the woods. He doesn't understand why they can't all simply stay in the city where there are warm hotel rooms and diners that serve burgers with fried eggs on top. Sam laughs, and calls him "Pollyanna Pissy Pants."

"If you weren't a granola munching hippie, you'd feel the same. It's just not natural Sammy. Natures, not natural." Sam smiles and shakes his head. Just like that it feels like things are good between them again. This is what Dean wants. Regardless of how this ends, he wants the last few hours that Sam spends with him to be a good memory.

Sam pulls a pile of papers out of his duffle to go over one last time before heading into "nature". Most of it is generic info about the previous deaths. Pretty much everything Byron had. There's an e-mail detailing his hunt last month, and how it managed to escape. "I thought I winged it, but it was a fast sucker, and I couldn't find a blood trail…" Sam pulls out the map, and they look over the area again. So far it looks like the werewolf has stuck to an area of about a five mile radius. Like Byron, they'll go to the epicenter. Whether it'll be stupid enough to go back to the same hunting grounds or not remains to be seen.

As Sam pulls the pack with the guns and ammo out of the trunk, Dean pulls the envelope from his pocket. He places a kiss on it, and slips it into the glove box.

It takes them the better part of four hours to hike to where they'll start their hunt, and by that time the sun has just begun to set. They find a spot and hunker down to wait for moon rise. It's still early enough in the spring to frost at night, and Dean can see his breath. They are sitting back to back, both with their knees pulled up to their chests and their hands under their arm pits. It had been very warm when they had started their hike, and while they had anticipated "cold", they had not anticipated, "I think my butt cheeks are frozen to the ground." Sam snickers at Dean, trying to stay quiet so he can listen. "Could you imagine me trying to run after this thing with my pants falling down around my ankles because I've frozen my ass off?" Sam loses it, because that image is just too much to handle, and Dean smiles, satisfied he's made Sammy's night. He's trying very hard to be the Dean of yesteryear for Sam's sake. He's trying to be the Dean that Sam actually _liked._

They banter back and forth for a little while longer about the cold, and wonder if maybe their monster has frozen to death. They're laughing when they hear a _crunch, snap, snarl._ Dean smiles as Sam leaps up.

_It's time._ Dean has played this over in his head time and again. He's thought out every scenario. He needs it to be played out just right so this son of a bitch kills him, and Sam can still kill it. This is too important to screw up.

He hears it rustle through dried leaves and branches. It's starting to circle them. _Perfect._ Dean gestures for Sam to go in one direction and cut it off, while he attempts to get behind it. Sam nods, and heads off, gun tight to his shoulder.

Dean heads off as well, just far enough to be out of Sam's sight. He places his gun on the ground, pulls his knife from his pocket and slices his shirt open down just below his heart, then carves into his flesh. Deep enough so the six inch wound over his pumping heart pulses out blood. He sets the knife beside the gun, steps away – and waits. He keeps his eyes and ears open for Sam. He will forgo his plans if Sam is in danger, but _only_ if Sam is in danger.

He sees her just past the trees. The moonlight reflects against her eyes. Their gazes meet, and they are stuck, staring at one another. A rapturous smile spreads across Dean's face. "Hello Beautiful." He whispers, knowing full well she can hear his quiet, breathy words. She looks confused for a moment, most likely trying to figure out why he's not running, or screaming.

Dean's heart is pounding, with anticipation. Tightness coils in his stomach. He _wants _this so bad that he's shaking with the need. Pulling the rip of his shirt open, he exposes the bloody gash, literally offering her his heart. His eyes plead with her. "Please." He sighs. In responseshe bares her mouth full of fangs in a snarling smile. Dean closes his eyes and listens as her feet pound against the damp earth sprinting toward him.

The Hellhounds hurt worse than this. The Rack hurt worse than this. The weighing agony of his life hurt worse than this… Dean screams anyway.

He hears the gunshot, and feels the weight of the beast crash onto him, and with it - terror and regret. All of a sudden, he wants Sam. He wants Sam there with him, to drag him out of this. To save his life _one last time_. His mind reels around as life seeps out of him. _I was wrong. I was so wrong. Please. _He doesn't feel pain any longer. He feels distant and disconnected. There's one thought that rises in his mind. One _damning_ thought that replaces his mantra of death affirming anticipation.

_I'm not ready to die. I'm not ready to die. I'm not ready to die… _

* * *

**_*"Pollyanna" was a book written in 1913 about an unfailingly happy and optimistic little girl, so calling Dean a "Pollyanna" is a double wammy Sam just couldn't resist._**

**_PS: Reviews are our friends!_**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Authors Notes: 1) Don't own 'em.**_

_**2) Trigger Warnings for suicide/depression, and for the next several chapter, heart wrenching grief. **_

_**3) I have this rated as T, but I'm not sure if it maybe should be M. (launguage and what not). Let me know if you feel it would be appropriate as an M rating.**_

_**4) No beta, so all mistakes are mine.**_

_**5) I ended up breaking this chapter into 2, so next chapter will be up in the next few hours - you get to meet Byron.**_

* * *

Sam doesn't know how long he's been sitting, holding Deans head in lap. He's been there long enough that his tears have dried up and he's stopped calling his name. He's lost right now, and can't focus on anything but the limp body he occasionally asks to _just come back._ "I should never have brought you on this hunt. I should have told Byron no. This is all my fault. Please come back. Dean. I don't know what to do." Then he's back howling out his misery, and calling Dean's name until it echoes through the woods, silencing the forest sounds with his anguished wail.

Sam lies down next to his brother, wrapping his arms around the bloody mangle of bone and flesh, as though he's trying to keep him warm and safe. He's kicked the woman – completely human now that she's dead – to the side, and doesn't give her a second thought. She took his brother's life from him, she's not worth it. He'll deal with her later. Right now Dean needs him. Sam buries his face in the back of Deans jacket, convinced that in the morning, he'll be alive again. It's what they do. They die and come back. _Dean will come back. He will. He always does._

There's a shuffling that wakes Sam. There's light filtering through the trees, declaring the new day. He lifts his head and sees three wolves pulling flesh off the woman. A forth comes near enough to begin sniffing at Dean. Sam bolts up and punches the animal in its neck. It yelps and skirts away with its tale between its legs and its ears back. The three around the girl perk up and look at him. A grey splotchy one growls at him. Sam decides to let the wolves enjoy their meal for now. He really couldn't care less if _the bitch_ gets eaten by the wildlife or not. Probably not the smartest choice he's ever made, but right now he doesn't care.

He runs his fingers through Dean's blood crusted hair. His body is stiff from rigor mortis, and his side is frozen to the ground. Sam pulls him onto his back, trying to ignore the crunch of breaking ice, fabric, and possibly flesh. When he looks at Dean's face he starts to dry heave. Deans eyes are open and filmy like he has cataracts, staring straight out into nothing. His mouth is open in a strange expression of awe, his checks sunken in. Specs of blood dot his face like thick freckles, now black against the grey, wax like skin. Sam can't look away. He stares at Dean, trying to will pink into his checks and light into his eyes. _Move._ But there's not no response, Sam knows there won't be this time. _He's gone. He's really gone. _

Sam jumps up and begins pacing, and grabs his hair and pulls on it. He's seething as the anger builds in him until he stomps over to the woman's body, fully intent of punishing her for her transgression. The wolf he assumes is the alpha snarls and snaps at him, warning him away from his meal, but Sam's the alpha here and he kicks the misguided beast in the side, once, twice, three times, until the dog begins whimpering and slinks away. His rage is taking him over, and he roars at the others, who follow their leader away. Sam kicks the woman. _Not a woman. A fucking werewolf bitch._ He kicks her side, and her face until his legs tire, then he crouches over her and begins striking the corpse. She's been dead too long to bleed, and that pisses him off more. She deserves to bleed the way she made his brother bleed. He takes her head and pounds it against the ground, determined to damage her. But you can't hurt a body that's dead, and Sam finds no satisfaction in that fact.

He finally falls on the ground between the two bodies, heaving in grief, anger and exhaustion. He knows he has to do something with the bodies. He can't just leave _the bitch_, she needs to be burned, and he certainly can't leave Dean - which poses an entirely different problem. Sam has no clue how he's going to get Dean out of there, and no clue if he even should. He decides to deal with that later. After he digs a small shovel out of his pack he begins to dig a hole to throw _the bitch_ in and burn her.

As haphazard as he is with _the bitch_ and her "funeral", that is how careful and precise he is with Deans. There's really no way he can get Dean out there, he's decided. It was a four hour hike to get to where he is, and it would be a good six or eight to get back dragging or carrying Dean. He doesn't know why he's considering carrying Dean. He would have to break his bones just to get him over his shoulders enough not to drop him every few steps, and Sam's just doesn't think he could stomach that.

He can't drag him because he has no way to make a litter. While there are plenty of sticks, he has nothing to bind them together. Dean cleaned out the Impala. All the odds and ends Sam may have thought of last minute to tuck into his pack, never made it. He brought water, some food, ammo, salt and lighter fluid. He's mad at himself for being so unprepared.

"It's just a werewolf, Sam." Dean had said. "We probably won't even be there the entire night." Sam had listened. Like an idiot he had listened, and just grabbed the necessities. Not even an extra blanket. He could carry Dean's body on a blanket. He's angry at Dean now for being so glib and careless and , dare he say, calculating. It's almost like he wanted to be unprepared. A knot forms in Sam's stomach at the thought and he pushes it down so quickly it's like it wasn't even there to being with.

Sam shakes his head in resignation. Even if he did manage to get Dean down to the Impala, getting him into the Impala and back to Kansas unnoticed was probably not going to happen.

So Sam now finds himself digging a grave; a proper grave, deep and perfect. He thinks about just burying Dean, and trying to bring him back again, but Sam understands, even in his grief, that this needs to stop. They've been at this for far too long, dying and coming back, sacrificing for each other in more and more twisted ways. A thought pans through his mind that perhaps this is for the best. It's time for Dean to rest. Sam's stomach lurches forward with guilt for wishing Dean dead.

Once he's laid Dean in the grave, he sprinkles salt on his body. Not in the way he did with _the bitch_, throwing clumps from the can down on top of her. For Dean he climbs into the grave and pours the salt into his hand, and gently scatters it, imagining the salt crystals are snowflakes falling on his brother. Squirting lighter fluid on him seems disrespectful, so instead Sam takes the cap off the liquid and anoints his head, his hands, and his feet. Sam trickles it into the wounds that still carry _the bitches'_ venom.

Sam stands over Dean with the matches in his hand. He considers staying in the grave and letting the fire take him too. He wants to burn with his brother. But he resigns himself to his own cowardice, and climbs out of the grave, before dropping a lit match.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Author's Notes: Yeah, I got nothin' this time. Hope you like Byron, he's fashioned after my real life BFF. **_

* * *

__Byron sets the coffee down on the nightstand and chuckles at the naked twink still asleep in his bed. He's just too freaking cute. Byron glances at his watch, wondering if maybe he could indulge, just one more time. It's almost ten, and he really does need to get on the road, so instead he sighs and kneels down poking the guy. "Hey. Wakey, wakey." A hand comes up and swats him away, before rolling over. "I got you coffee and donuts." The young man groans into the pillow. "You know, polite one night stand etiquette is to be gone before I wake up, Jake."

"Jack."

Byron shrugs. "Whatever. Up- up."

"You weren't this big of a dick last night, _Brian_."

"Byron."

He shrugs as he sits up, and flashes a grin. "Whatever."

_Jack_ is shoving the last of his third donut into his mouth when Byron's phone rings.

"Sam! Done already? I knew I could count on you." There's silence on the other end, but he can hear heavy breathing. "Sam? You okay?"

_"It's your fault you know."_

"What?"

_"I mean, you couldn't just do it yourself. Or call someone else. I mean, you knew Dean wasn't in the best state of mind, and you called us anyway. What the hell is wrong with you?"_

"Sam? What…What's…"

"_Dean's dead_,_ Byron. I couldn't even bring him back here with me. I had to fucking burn him in FUCKING NEBRASKA."_

Byron drops the phone as he hits the floor, his legs turning to jell-o under him. Sam's still yelling at him over the phone, but he can't understand the words, not with the white noise that's flooding his ears. He's light headed now, with pins and needles pricking at him. His chest tightens painfully, and the world around him starts going white. His throat is closing up, and he knows this is how he's going to die. He's hot. So, hot and he can feel the sweat beading on his body. Byron grasps at his chest trying to dig the pain out. _This is what it's like to lose someone you love._ He thinks it abstractly, because thinking it in solid form makes it so.

A hand strikes him across the face, sharp and stinging. Byron stops breathing for a moment as his own hand flies to his face. He looks up at Jack, shocked. He's standing over him with a look of panic on his face. Then he kneels down cupping Byron's face in his hands. "Breath with me Byron. In through your nose 1…2…3…4…out through your mouth 1…2…3…4…" Byron obeys; this is exactly what he needs; someone to take the lead on this, because he hasn't got a clue.

Once his breathing is calmed and he can see, hear and breath normal again, Jack hands him a cup of water. Byron hadn't realized how sore and dry his throat was, he gulps it down and Jack gets him another. Several cups later, Jack has pulled Byron up into his lap. As awkward a sensation as it is, (Jack is several years younger and a little smaller), he's so grateful for the comfort he can't bring himself to move.

"Tell me." Jack finally whispers. The only words he's spoken since breathing instructions.

Byron releases a shaky breath, and closes his eyes to brace against the reality. "Dean's dead." Neither says anything for a while, and then Byron begins to speak. "I met him on a hunt … I mean a case … shit." He pinches his nose. "There's no way to explain this."

"Just talk. I won't judge. Cross my heart, hope to cry, stick a cupcake in my eye." Byron tilts his head up to eye Jack with a baffled stare. "My Little Pony." Jack answers. "What? Don't look at me like that. Dude. I have little sisters." Byron catches himself smiling. "Shut up and talk." And Byron does, he tells him all about the first time he met Dean Winchester.

* * *

The ghost had been terrorizing a small community college it Upstate, New York. Byron and Dean had been trying to distract the ghost, while Sam was torching the remains. After they watched her vanish in a tapering ball of fire, they were walking across the parking lot to their cars, when Byron spotted the other Saab. As much as Dean loved _Baby_, that is how much Byron loved _Inga, _his is 1992 Saab 9000. It was a debate they would end up having time and again. Saab vs. Chevy. Baby vs. Inga. But on this particular day, Byron spotted Inga's evil twin, and this evil twin had something Byron wanted. He tugged Dean's sleeve and pulled him over. "Cover me." Byron said to him, pulling a small tool kit out of one of his cargo pockets.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Byron grinned at Dean and knelt down in front of the head lights. "I have been looking for head light wipers for Inga. Can't find 'em except new."

"You're stealing headlight wipers? Seriously?" Dean spun around with wide eyes. "NOW!?"

Byron fixed him with a glare. "Have you met the lady that owns this car? She walked up to me yesterday to 'admire' my car, then proceeded to tell me how her _exact same car_ was so much better. Even pointed out my lack of headlight wipers. I want them. She has them. I'm taking them. End of story." Byron set one of the wipers in Dean's hand and moved on to the other.

"What the Hell!" A screech came from across the parking lot. The lady, who owned _the evil twin_, was running towards them.

"Shit." Byron cursed. "Do something."

Dean pulled out his FBI badge. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to step back."

"He's stealing my wipers."

"No ma'am, Agent Skynard is collecting evidence."

"Agent? Him?"

"Yes ma'am. He's been working undercover. Are you aware that your wiper's are a black market product. That these deaths here at the college have been directly related to the black market car parts ring operating out of the Liberal Arts Building."

"What are you talking about? Those wipers came with the car."

"Is that what they told you?" Dean asked incredulously. "No ma'am. But we do owe you a debt of gratitude. Had you not pointed them out to Agent Skynard here, we never would have broken the case. We can actually trace these back to the ring leader."

"Um… uh….w-well."

"All done." Byron piped up. He reached out his hand, taking the woman's in his. "Thank you so much for your assistance. Without your help these murders would have continued. You have saved lives, ma'am."

They walked away, leaving a gaping and confused middle aged woman behind. "Oh my God, Dean. I can't believe she bought that crap." Byron whispered.

"Don't count on it. By the time her brain catches up with her attitude, she's gonna be chasing us down."

Just as they were opening their respective car doors (because no way were either one riding in the other's car), she screeched again. "Stop! Thieves! Help!"

Byron got a text message a few minutes later from Dean. _Bar. Beer. Follow me. _

They sat at the bar nursing their beers. Dean telling Byron stories about some of the messes he and Sam had gotten into, while Byron shared some of his more interesting tales (and when your new at hunting there are some seriously amusing mishaps). Laughing, Dean turned around; leaning up against the bar he ran his eyes over the people. "Red head two o'clock. Man, she looks ready to eat you up."

Byron turned to look at her. She was, small, and thin, with strait red hair pulled over her shoulder. "Cute, but not really my type."

"Ok. I'll be your wingman. What's your type?"

_You, _Byron thought, but opted to use his grown up brain and keep his trap shut. Instead he surveyed the clientelle. His eyes fell on a blonde. Tall, and built up just right, Byron motioned toward him. "Tall Blonde, blue skin tight t-shirt, eight o'clock."

Dean's eyes got comically wide, and Byron couldn't help but smirk at him. "Dude? You're into dudes?"

Byron was suddenly uncomfortable and nervous. He'd never had to hide his sexuality before. His family and friends had been very supportive when he came out, but with hunters, it was different. He had no idea how any of them would act, and it was something that was very difficult to gage. The majority of hunters were good ol' boy types, and it made him just a bit antsy. _So what the hell was he doing coming out to a hunter he'd known less than 24 hours._ "Is that going to be a problem?" Byron asked, swishing the remains of his beer around, refusing to meet Dean's eyes.

"Um. Well, not my cup of tea, but, ya know man, as long their legal, consenting and not a monster, you can bang whoever you want." He took a sip of his beer. "But seriously, making sure they're not a monster; just as important as the condom. Trust me, I speak from experience… Red head coming this way."

"Hi." She said, leaning into Byron. "Wanna buy me a drink. I saw you watching me." Dean snickered into his beer. She was drunk, and it wasn't even 5 o'clock yet.

"Uh. I really appreciate the interest," Byron leaned back, "but you're not my type." He gently pushed her away, with a disgusted look on his face.

"Awe, what wrong. Don't like redheads."

"No, I actually love red heads … I just prefer ones with a little more… muscle."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm stronger than I look." She leaned in again.

"He's gay sweetheart." Dean announces. "He's trying to tell you, you got the wrong equipment." She backed up with an appalled look on her face, and then turned a 1000 watt smile on Dean. "Bro's before ho's sister. Move a long."

Byron chocked, eyes watering as beer dripped out of his nose. "Did you really just say _bro's before ho's?_" The redhead huffed away, while Dean goes back to eyeing the blonde Byron pointed out.

"That's really your type? He looks like Freddie from Scooby-Doo, all he's missing is the ascot."

Byron shrugs as his mouth twitches up into a smile. "I had a crush on Freddie when I was a kid."

"Really? I totally had a thing for Velma."

It was right then, that Byron knew he was in trouble. Dean really could not have been any more perfect if he tried. Who else would have your back stealing headlight wipers? But Dean was straight, and that complicated things for Byron. So he made a conscious decision to limit his contact with Dean. He called Sam about hunts, and cultivated a friendship with Sam whereas with Dean he focused on an "acquaintanceship". He became almost paranoid about letting his crush be known, for fear of losing what little bit of Dean he had. But as the saying goes, "absence makes the heart grow fonder".

Byron now regretted the decision to distance himself from Dean. He should have taken the friendship Dean had to offer, over the distant "colleague" rapport they cultivated.

* * *

As he lays in Jacks arms, in that crappy motel room in Rifle, Colorado, there is absolutely no denying it. He is hopelessly and completely in love with Dean Winchester, and now even that unrequited love is lost to him. He's dead. He's gone. The only person Byron can honestly say he cares about more than himself, and it's killing him. He is convinced he's going to die of a broken heart. His chest starts to tighten again, and Jack reminds him to breath.

By noon Byron is on the road to Kansas. He has Jack's number tucked safely in his phone, with a promise to call when he's in Lebanon. Jack is nervous about him driving while he's still suffering the side effects of the panic attack, but Byron knows, no matter how bad he is handling Dean's death, Sam is worse off, and needs him, regardless of his drunken accusations. Sam is Dean's brother, and that means Byron will be there for him, if for no other reason than that's what Dean would want. He rolls his windows down, turns his music up, and tries to remember to breath.

* * *

_**Reviews are always welcome. Contructive critisism is how I improve. Also I would love to know what you think of Byron. I wasn't sure if I should introduce him this way. The hubster says, "Yeah, you just kinda put it out there, didn't you." I told him, "It's 'Byron', whatcha gonna do." P.S. Story Byron is a little nicer than real life "Byron".**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**Authors Note:**_

_**1) No Beta, all my mistakes are mine. **_

* * *

Dean wakes with a start, propelling himself to sit up. It takes him a moment to orient himself, and when he does he's more confused than before. He knows he shouldn't be there. He isn't entirely sure how or why he knows, but he knows. He's sitting in the backseat of the Impala, parked outside of the bunker. Baby's where she should be, and waking up in the back of the Impala shouldn't feel as _wrong_ as it does, but it does. There's more a sense of nostalgia or déjà vu, where everything's there, just _not quite._

Dean looks around, trying to place a finger on something to bolster him. Yes, everything is there. He is in the Impala, outside the bunker. _Maybe I got drunk and couldn't make it inside. _ But he's not hung over, he's not even groggy – he's awake and alert in a way he hasn't been in ages.

It's sunny outside, he notices now. _Daytime._ Even that seems off. _Shouldn't it be night. I could have sworn it was night. _ Dean lifts his hand to the sunlight streaming in through the window. It's unsettling, but he can't place why. He's seeing something, but doesn't know what. He just _can't seem to grasp it._ Whatever _it_ is, it's making him feel so bizarre. _Surreal. _He recognizes this as the root of his confusion. Everything is surreal, _dreamlike._ Dean needs to shiver at the realization, but his body won't respond to that need.

_I should go inside. I need to talk to Sam. _ He reaches for the door handle, and slips out of the car. Again, he has that strange sensation of wrongness, staring at the Impala he knows, _knows,_ he's missing something, and still, he just _cannot_ grasp it. _Sam._ He turns away from his car and walks toward the bunker. He instantly feels anxious. There's the need to see Sam, but even more than the need to see Sam, there is a force of need that compels him to stay with Baby. His stomach is knotting up, and he can feel a twinge of panic set inside him. It's the first real feeling outside of some variant of confusion that Dean's had since waking up. _Feeling._ He's not _feeling_ anything. He didn't feel the seats underneath him, or the warmth from the sunlight on his hand. He can't tell if it's hot or cold. He can't feel the wind, even though he sees the trees waving. He didn't feel the handle of the car door. He doesn't even remember _getting out of _the car.

_I need Sam. _Fear, panic, and the basic need, that only Dean Winchester can have to get to Sam, overrides whatever need to stay with Baby that he's feeling. He runs toward the bunker, only to be sucker punched by some unseen force. He feels distant and disjointed for just a moment. Long enough to think; _now this is familiar,_ before there's nothing…

Dean wakes with a start, propelling himself to sit up. It takes him a moment to orient himself, and when he does he's more confused than before. He knows he shouldn't be there. He isn't entirely sure how or why he knows, but he knows. He's sitting in the backseat of the Impala, parked outside of the bunker. Baby's where she should be, and waking up in the back of the Impala shouldn't feel as _wrong_ as it does, but it does. There's more a sense of nostalgia or déjà vu, where everything's there, just _not quite…_

Dean understands, on some deep down level what's happening, but he can't stop it. His thoughts, his actions, even his confusion are out of his control, until the moment he figures it out and panics, and he wakes up again… and again and again. The déjà vu becomes stronger each time, but he still can't fit the pieces together. He's forgotten something, he knows he's forgotten something, but he can't _think_ that. Like everything else outside of confusion and panic, it's so far beneath the surface he can't reach it. That's what's annoying him the most. He knows that he knows, but he doesn't know what he knows, and even worse is that those thoughts are there but they _aren't. _Dean wants to scream, to yell, to pull himself out of whatever the hell this is, but nothing is in his control… so he runs to try and find Sam, only to be sucker punched by some unseen force, and he feels distant and disjointed for just a moment. Long enough to think; _now this is familiar,_ before there's nothing…

Dean wakes with a start. He hears the sound of tires on gravel and sees the glow of head lights reflect inside the car. For some unknown reason he is flooded with relief. It's dark now, and that's as much a comfort as the approaching vehicle. Looking out the back window he sees Byron's Saab pull up and park maybe 30 feet away. He reaches for the door handle and slips out of the car.

Dean is sitting on the trunk of the Impala waiting for Byron to get out of his car. Byron leans his head against his steering wheel, glances at himself in the rear view mirror, runs his fingers over his eyes then leans his head back and heaves a sigh.

"Oh, for the love of …" Dean huffs. "You're worse than a girl, I swear to God."

Byron finally climbs out of his car and stares in Dean's direction. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, looks at his feet and walks, _so freaking slowly,_ over towards him, until he's standing in front of the Impala, and maybe a foot to Dean's left. "Seriously, dude? Not even a 'hey Dean'. Whatever. You are not going to believe how freaking weird my day has been."

By way of answer Byron pulls his hands from his pockets, using the back of his wrists to wipe tears from his red puffed up eyes. "Man. Byron? Are you ok. You look like hell."

Byron rubs a hand over the trunk, and knocks three times. "Damnit Dean" he whispers.

"Byron? Dude, don't just ignore me. What's going on?" That familiar twinge of dread nudges at Deans stomach. "Look at me." But he doesn't, instead he turns his head towards the entrance of the bunker and looks at it like he's going to face the firing squad.

"Byron!" Dean yells his name. "Answer me!" Byron turns his body toward the Bunker now, and rubs his hands together, obviously trying to prepare himself for whatever lies ahead. "Byron! I am RIGHT HERE!" Dean reaches to grab Byron by the shoulder. He's going to turn him around, take him by the collar and shake some damn sense into him. Only he doesn't. Dean _sees_ what happens. And when he sees it, he sees everything. He _sees_ his hand slip through Byron like he's not really there. He _sees_ the sunlight shine through his hand like he's so much dust. He _sees_ himself reach for the door handle and just _finds_ himself outside. He _sees_ himself wanting to sit on the trunk of the Impala and just _finds_ himself there. He feels the _nothing_ that comes with it all.

"No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no." Byron's walking away now, and Dean follows. "Please, Byron, tell me I'm not… Byron, what the hell's happened? Byron! I'm right here! I'm right here!" He's reaching for Byron, trying to grasp his shirt, his shoulder… anything, but he slips through him. He feels the all too memorable tug in his stomach that tells him he's approaching the boarder of his allowed space. (He doesn't have a clue how he knows, and really doesn't have the time to think about now.) He stops short when the tugging becomes painful, like his stomach is trying to fly out the back of his spine. Dean watches Byron move towards the bunker, his head down again, and his walk slow. Byron rubs his nose and sniffles.

Watching his friend walk away is too much for him, and he decides to risk it. He takes a step past the boarder, and feels the punch. He feels distant and disjointed for just a moment. Long enough to think; _Damnit,_ before there's nothing…

This time when Dean wakes up his first thought is to be outside the Impala. He finds himself there as quickly as he could think the thought, and begins to pace. He doesn't have all the pieces yet, but they're coming. He's slowing figuring it out. He sits on Baby's trunk, on her hood, in the front seat, back seat, on the ground next to her. He paces some more. He watches Byron leave, and not even bother to glance his way while Dean yells for him at the top of his lungs. He watches Byron come back with a bag in his hand. "Stop ignoring me! I'M RIGHT HERE!" The sun rises. He is vaguely aware that he should be tired, but he's not, he's just frustrated. He's missing something, something _huge_, and he wants either his brother or his best friend to get a clue, realize he's missing, come outside and _fix this_.

* * *

**_Reviews and constructive critisism is welcome. _**


	7. AUTHORS NOTE

**Sooooo... I'm putting this story on a brief hiatus. I need to complete it, and edit it before I do anymore uploads, and that means going back and changing things. Turns out I really kinda suck at the writing one chapter at a time thing. (Riding Shotgun went through four completed drafts before I pulished it) I can't take the story where I want to take it and keep it were its been...and seriously, some of the stuff I wrote, I read it and I'm like ... Huh, didn't know I was on drugs...yeah, a lot of stuff just doesn't mesh. I'm woman enought to admit when something sucks and fix it. **

**Once I'm done, I'll up load again, replace old chapters with the new and improved ones (I'm not chaning the story, just some of the finer details), and replace this one with the real chapter 7.**

**Sorry for the inconvience guys. I am aiming for the first week in NOV.**

**Wish me luck. **


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